Jewish Spaghetti
by Crazyaspie
Summary: Transboy Stanley Uris gets some help from an unlikely source. Based off prompt I received via tumble. Pairing: Stan Uris / Victor Criss Warning: Menstruation, language, anti-semitism, homophobic slurs, implied child abuse, and lots of passive tone
1. Part 1

**Part 1**

* * *

"What the hell?"

Standing there in bloody briefs, holding the unraveled remains of what was - only a second ago - tightly wound sportswrap, Stan knew his life was over.

Stan had lied to Coach Black when he felt it coming, still not yet used to this new, monthly hell. That strange pain forming beneath his skin, he held his side like he had a stitch, and managed to cash in his good reputation for the chance to shower alone.

So hearing another voice in there with him wasn't inconvenient and terrifying, but also humorous in a way that only God could appreciate. He even had the chutzpah to make that voice belong to the most shockingly blond asshole in Derry High. Because if anyone was going to find out in the most humiliating way possible that Stan was on his period, it would be a Bowers goon. The pretty one, at that.

Turning around, Stan crossed his arms in front of his chest. Even as he tried to hide the shape of his body, the blood was a dead give away. Victor looked at it, to the wrappings in Stan's hands, and finally, to Stan's face.

Stan steeled himself for the cutting words that would follow. Victor hesitated a moment, his mouth hanging open and his expression oddly sympathetic, before the shock wore off and his usual smug little face came back.

"You can't wear that! You're going to hurt yourself!"

"Huh?"

"Look, you're small enough, just put on a good sports bra. If you keep using that other stuff, you're going to break a rib!"

Victor had to point for Stan to realize he was talking about the sports wrap.

"How do you-"

"And is this your first period?"

"No," Stan said, indignant. Quieter, he added, "I've had a few."

"Well, plug it up, asshole!"

Vic pulled a tampon from one of his pockets, and sent it flying. It struck the very stunned and slightly curious Stanley in the chest, making him slap himself as he caught it.

"Why do you have a tampon?"

"The better question is why don't you?" Victor leaned back slightly, narrowing his eyes. It was almost a challenge. "Too afraid to be seen buying them? Don't be. They all think you're buying them for your mom. Just get some kids candy with it, like you had to be bribed."

"Thanks?"

There was a pause. Vic let it hang between them for a few seconds as Stan simply stared. He felt like he'd stepped into the Twilight zone.

"I don't understand," Stan finally got his voice to start working. "Why are you telling me this stuff? How do you know this stuff?"

"Do you really think I avoid the shower because I like the feeling of being sweaty?"

It clicked so hard, Stan felt like he'd been slapped. His eyes widened and his nose flared as a greedy amount of air filled it.

"You're -" Stan was walking towards Vic, his stern glare melting into something more affable.

Vic did the exact opposite, and even held out a hand to stop Stan if he got too close. "- Not going to have a bonding moment in the shower with a half naked Jew."

Stan shut his mouth and looked down at his feet. He was so excited to meet someone like him, he almost forgot who he was speaking to.

He heard a sigh and looked up to see Vic swaying in place, one arm curled up behind his back as he had a mental debate with himself.

"You're a grade behind me, yeah? Meet me at the kissing bridge tonight. I'll hook you up with Drugstore Dan. He's got hormone blockers and t shots and shit like that."

"What are those?" Stan had an idea, but he never knew things existed to fix what he'd thought was inevitable.

"They stop your puberty from fucking up your body," Vic answered, confirming Stan's suspicions, and sending goosebumps down his arms.

Stan started to say something, some kind of show of gratitude. But Vic turned on his heels dramatically, his boots squealing against the floor. He walked off, whatever he'd come in there to do clearly forgotten or discarded to avoid furthering the already surreal experience.

As soon as Stan heard the door closing in the distance, he took his shower and put on some fresh clothing. He had just finished tying the final knot on his shoelaces when the first of the other boys came in.

Nobody seemed to notice anything different about Stan, but his problems were just beginning. As he thought about it, nobody ever seemed to notice anything different about Victor either. His face was thickening the same as Henry's, as was his neck, shoulders, and voice.

Knowing he was about to find out why made the rest of the day easier to handle.


	2. Part 2

**Part 2**

* * *

"Stan's actually pretty cool," Victor said, leaning against the side of the Aladdin, a cigarette already between his fingers. Belch raised an eyebrow more skeptical than the American Atheists, but said nothing. He knew if he gave it a moment, Victor would start up again. "I mean, he likes Led Zeppelin, and –"

"– he has all these old Elvis albums," Stan said, sitting on the picnic table, his shoes on the seat, his knees perfectly side-by-side. Richie handed him one of the two hotdogs he'd bought from the vendor. Stan liked his covered in mustard, but Richie was making a stinkface for a whole different reason.

There was a dreamy look in Stan's eyes as he talked about Victor Criss that left a bad taste in Richie's mouth. It was almost like he admired him or something…

"Didn't he also hold you down while Belch burped in your face?" Richie asked, not at all jealous. Nope. Not him. "Then they burped on your sandwich, and you cried for like an hour because you couldn't eat it anymore. I had to punch a kid for laughing at you, remember? But then he broke my glasses… that was a terrible day."

Stan had to stop himself from taking a big bite of dog, on account of gagging at the memory. Belch's breath had smelled like tuna casserole, and from that day on, Stan traded off his lunches whenever his mom, blissfully ignorant, made her 'world famous' version of it for him.

"Yes. But. He's apologized for that. And all the other things, too," Stan gave Richie a patient look, like he was speaking to a child much younger. "He takes medicine that makes him irritable and aggressive. I'm helping him find healthier ways of handling that than picking on us. Besides, he's the only person who can me out with my… thing…"

"That doesn't change anything, he's still a big fat –"

"– little shit, and a Jew," Belch said. He dropped his cigarette and then stomped it out with the tip of his sneaker. "If Henry finds out that's who you've been spending all your time with, he's gonna be pissed, and then you can't hang out with us no more."

Victor blew smoke at Belch. "I have lots of other friends that Henry don't like. Catholics, Jews, girls, and fags, and I'm gonna keep havin' them, too."

Belch started pouting. Plump bottom lip jutted out, eyebrows furrowed together, and cheeks looking as round and rosy as a five year old, Belch looked like he needed a pacifier, not a cigarette. Victor almost said as much, but he knew there was something there beneath the surface.

It came up real quick when Vic laughed, along with an embarrassed blush.

"What about me?" He asked, kicking a pebble away. "You're always hanging out with him now. Am I still your friend?"

Vic softened up a little. "You're still my best friend –"

"– but you can't help me with what I'm going through," Stan said, his voice taking on that very serious discussion tone.

"You can tell me what it is, Stan. Maybe I can help you, and you just don't know it because I'm also keeping it secret," Richie helpfully suggested. He straightened his glasses, and Stan watched, fascinated, as his eyes seemed to grow smaller and smaller as the thick lenses got closer to them.

"I'm allowed to keep things to myself," Stan pointed out.

"But if you tell Victor, it's not keeping it to yourself. It's just keeping it from me," Richie countered.

Stan sighed.

"It's just not that simple, Richie. I need someone to talk to about what's happening to me, and he's already been through it," Stan explained. He got as close the truth as he dared.

Richie dropped his head as he thought for a moment.

"Is it because you're –"

"– gay?"

Victor didn't answer, and Belch wasn't offended by the blatant dismissal of the one question he'd been dying to ask since he accidentally found out about the weekly trips to the gay bar on the outskirts of town. Derry was not a safe place for people of a certain thread. If Belch was already too aware of that, he couldn't imagine what Vic knew of it.

The truth was, thankfully, more normal and less violent: Victor simply hadn't considered that he might be anything. Gay? Straight? Was he even in love?

Did he sometimes have the urge to kiss Henry or Belch? Yeah. But he also sometimes had that urge with Beverly, Gretta, or even Mrs Douglas. People were beautiful, magical creatures with soft parts and hard parts, both equally fun to explore in the right circumstances. Vic's brain couldn't fathom sorting people out by insignificant factors, like gender or clothes.

But Belch's question crept along Victor's brain, lingering in the background as Michael Meyers murdered adults pretending to be teenagers, and Victor picked out pieces of popcorn with his tongue, like a little frog catching flies. By the time the two were parting ways, Victor was deep in thought.

Stan was waiting on the kissing bridge for only twenty minutes before he saw Victor riding up on his bike. In the moonlight, Victor's head seemed to glow. His blond paleness rejected the darkness while the blue of his shirt absorbed it until it appeared almost black. It was such a sight that Stan wondered how he had ever been afraid of, or intimidated, by Victor Criss.

"Stan, do you like me?" Victor asked, as he handed Stan some clean syringes. How he got them was a mystery, but Stan never questioned it. He tucked them into his backpack, and then pulled out the bottle of testosterone he'd grabbed for Victor, saving them an extra trip.

"Yeah?" Stan answered. "I mean, I'm not going to invite you to my bar mitzvah or anything like that, but you're cool."

"No, I mean… like like."

Stan wasn't prepared to answer that. He felt the flush running from head to toe, turning his skin red. Suddenly, he remembered what it was about Vic that was intimidating – it was the way he could make Stan weak in the knees with a single glance.

"Oh… maybe?"

Victor sat, his arms crossed and leaning against his handlebar. He watched Stan for a minute, trying to gauge the situation. They stayed like that for an uncomfortable amount of time, neither one wanting to be the first to push things, but both wanting the other to try.

Being the elder of the two, even if was by less than a year, Vic decided to take the plunge.

"So… you wanna hang out and play video games on Friday?"

The way Victor asked, Stan felt a small bit of excitement launching itself from his stomach to his heart. The heart responded by vomiting nervousness right back, and Stan was left confused, jittery, and too full of energy to wait a whole day to find out if they were going where he thought they were going – which was on a date.

But, seeing as how he couldn't just ask if it was a date, because how embarrassing if it wasn't, Stan nodded, and kept it casual.

"Yeah, that'd be swell," he said, his voice cracking as he realized that of all the words, his brain provided him with swell.

"Swell," Victor repeated, grinning at the quaint phrasing. Thankfully, he said no more on it. He gave a little laugh, and started pedaling away, using only one hand to steer.


	3. Part 3

**Part 3**

* * *

Stan learned many things from Victor over the years.

First, he learned that Victor didn't frown and glare because the blond was in a perpetual state of unhappiness – Victor frowned because it made the lines on his face harder, and more masculine looking. Stan showed Victor the art of the bitch face, and Victor showed Stan how to murder someone with well placed eyebrows. The two of them could shame a person with one look more effectively than most people could with an entire paragraph of words.

Second, he learned that slumping the shoulders slightly and placing his feet more apart when he walked gave him what many people would consider a masculine gait. For Vic, that was easiest to adopt by tucking a hand in his pocket, and using the other for cigarettes – lollipops later on, after Stan told him his kisses tasted awful.

Stan had to practice again and again to make sure it didn't crease his clothing too bad, though, and found that his pockets were too warm. So he tried different things. He found the right one eventually, drawing his shoulders back, and keeping his natural hip roll, but leaning ever so slightly with it.

Vic looked Too Cool For School, and Stan looked like he owned three companies and was just about throw down a briefcase to acquire another. When they walked side-by-side, and especially when they brandished their masterful looks of displeasure, it was murder.

Third, he learned how to roll a sock, just in case someone tried to land a knee or kick on his crotch. There wasn't anything else to it, really.

Finally, he learned that while Victor like-liked him too, it took a lot of patience to transform their mutual crush into a stable relationship. As Vic came up and put his head on Stan's shoulder, his arms wrapping around Stan's waist, they both knew it was worth it. The freedom they knew now was more than they'd ever thought was possible.

Vic watched as Stan stirred the sugar-laced tomato sauce into the noodles – Jewish spaghetti Stan called it, even though Vic couldn't tell the difference between it and non-Jewish spaghetti. He planted a kiss onto Stan's neck, and grinned as it made Stan shiver.

"Stop it! You're going to make me spill something," Stan scolded.

"That's the idea," Vic whispered.

He kissed that little sweet spot even harder, brushing it slightly with his teeth. Realizing he was trapped between two of the sauciest things in his home, and a mess was inevitable, Stan turned around, ducked his shoulder down, and brought the spoon up to playfully threaten his boyfriend.

"I said stop it, you jerk," Stan teased. He grabbed the loaf of bread from the counter behind Vic and handed it to him. "Make the garlic bread before you hurt yourself."

Vic was grinning like a dork when Stan went back to cooking. Two plates of spaghetti, four slices of garlic bread made in the toaster, and three full glasses of cherry wine later, Stan was plump, giggly, and lounging on the couch. He reached up and hooked his fingers around Vic's belt, and pulled him down so he could snuggle.

Stan ran his thumb along Victor's chin, and then held it as he took a kiss from Victor's lips, followed by a few more. They kissed until Victor passed out, too tired to keep his eyes open. Vic was even trying to get in a few more soft smacks as he fell into his sleep, his lips moving automatically.

Shifting out from under him gently, Stan went to take his nightly bath.

They were twenty-something, living in Georgia, and both riding scholarships the Rabbi hooked them up with. Overall, it was a good life. One that he'd never imagined having, especially not with Victor Criss, of all people. If either of them had been born in different circumstances, it would've never happened, and only God knew where they would've ended up.

But wasn't that just the point of it? Maybe there was a God, and maybe he moved in mysterious ways, drawing the right boys into the right bathroom. Or maybe there was a giant turtle in the sky, hand picking the people with the right stuff inside of them, beneath the layers of crap, and gluing them together with cosmic fate. Or maybe there were soul mates, forged from the experiences needed to complete their other half.

Or maybe there was both a promise, and a threat, dropped from the lips of a creature that had no right existing: You will all live to grow and thrive and lead happy lives until old age takes you back to the weeds.

Only it wouldn't be old age taking them, because they didn't accept that deal. It would be clowns, and teeth, and deadlights, at the tender age of 40.

Stan pondered this and realized it didn't matter. Unlike the others, Stan didn't forget his hometown of Derry, or the promise he made to come back. He knew the year of his death, and, oddly, that made him far more likely to enjoy the small things. He had 20 more years before he had to deal with that again. That was a million opportunities for spontaneous dancing in the living room, little kisses before class, listening to Vic quietly whisper while doing homework, running down the aisle in Walmart with the camcorders and the giant TV, pretending like they're journalists running away from Godzilla, or supermodels.

That was a lot of years to be happy, more than most people got – and he knew happy is exactly what he'd be. He knew it the same as he knew when it was hot outside. It was a feeling in his skin, tickling his senses, leading him.

He and Victor would go over to Belch's on the weekends and get shitfaced until Belch and his girl Patricia from Temple got married and had three tots. Stan would complete his CPA and finally be able to quit his job at Staples to open an accounting firm. Victor had something already picked out for him, too, but Stan didn't know what it was, yet. It was just an inkling, still.

Stanley Uris finished his bath. He went back to the couch, pulled his beloved back into his arms, and fell asleep before the sad parts of knowing that he was middle-aged in college could really sink in.


End file.
